December 9, Monday

I CURLED up in Rose's window seat with Wayne's manuscript in my lap. The question that had been nagging at me all morning surfaced again: Should I still try to get Wayne's book published?

The story was compelling, even if it cut too close to Irving's secrets. But maybe that was the point – maybe some stories needed to be told, even if they made people uncomfortable.

I set aside the manuscript and reached for the stack of my own books Dora had given me – Wayne's personal copies. Opening the first one, I found the margins crammed with his neat handwriting.

"Strong opening hook," he'd written. "Notice how she gives just enough backstory to ground the reader without overwhelming them."

My throat tightened. He'd studied my books like textbooks, breaking down my techniques, analyzing my plot structures. Every page contained his insights and observations.

"Good foreshadowing here," another note read. "Seeds planted early pay off in final act."

Seeds. Something clicked in my brain as a dried morning glory seed fell from between the pages. So Wayne had experimented with them too, trying to understand the town's mysteries from every angle.

I picked up another book, this one even more heavily annotated. In the back, Wayne had started outlining his own novel:

"Character notes: Need someone who knows all the town's secrets but keeps them close. Like Coleman at the grocery – sees everything, says little. The keeper of Irving's mysteries..."

I sat up straighter, my heart beginning to race. Coleman. Of course.

The scrying mirror in his office. The way he always seemed to know what was happening in town before anyone else. How he'd been unusually quiet at Thanksgiving dinner when the twins started talking about murders.

And hadn't I seen him talking to his mirror, as if it could talk back?

My hands shook slightly as I picked up Wayne's manuscript again, flipping to a passage I remembered:

In every small town, there's someone who keeps the balance between light and dark, between the seen and unseen. Someone who watches and waits, who knows when to speak and when to stay silent. Someone who understands that some secrets are better left buried...

I thought of Coleman's weathered face, his knowing eyes, the careful way he measured out my egg money as if every transaction was a ritual.

Could Coleman have stolen Rose's casket? If so, why?

My mind spun with possibilities, round and round… and round and round…

The keeper of Irving's secrets….

Then my mind stopped, with a finger pointed to the now-obvious answer: Bingo.